


to sleep, perchance to dream

by Lvslie



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Dithering, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Post-Drift (Pacific Rim), Semi-Coherent Confessions, Shakespeare, Sharing a Bed, have I said Shakespeare?, they're idiots, warning: nosebleeds and recollections of vaguely implied past trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-06 08:08:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14637654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lvslie/pseuds/Lvslie
Summary: ‘You’re, like, my everything,’ Newt blurts out, defeated, unravelling. There’s some limit to all this suffocating bullshit, there must be, and he’s been on the edge for so long that he can’t even begin to justify it. ‘You know? My whole fucking life.’





	to sleep, perchance to dream

**Author's Note:**

> In short, I've been reading a lot, lot, lot of Shakespeare lately, I'm always drawn like a curious cat towards writing emotional vulnerability and I've grown to like these two very, very much. And I'm resolutely trying not to think about the second film. Which totally works.

 

The truth of it is: Newton’s quarters are simply _closer._

After leaving the LOCCENT, dazed and nearly high on all the residual adrenaline, shock and what in all probability is scattered neural bleed-out from the most recent drift mingled evenly with pleasantly _uncharacteristic_ amount of awkward, loping embraces shared with the seemingly equally stunned Hermann, Newt vaguely recalls uttering his first semi-coherent sentence since the world’s almost ended, which goes something along the lines of, ‘Let’s maybe … not do the medical check-up right away, huh? How d’you think, I mean, let’s — I _mean_ , my quarters are closer, so maybe let’s just maybe crash there or whatever, man —’ 

He’s not quite sure what _exactly_ he’s had in mind aside from drowning out the raging noise in his head for a little bit (without the cost of letting go of Hermann), and he doesn’t quite recall what the other man’s _exact_ answer was, but whatever it may have been, _must_ have been at least somewhat affirmative: they find themselves trudging up to the dorm in joint, weary effort, Hermann’s arm slung heavily over Newton’s shoulders.

It’s not that Newton doesn’t perceive the vague criticism emanated by Hermann upon letting them inside (and dropping the key, two, _three_ times before Hermann mutters, ‘maybe I should —’ and the door finally swings open to end Newton’s increasing misery) but rather that he chooses to ignore it. The space is small, cluttered to the point of disbelief but, hey — at least, kind of _cosy_ , right? Newt’s convinced that Hermann’s quarters, as utterly spotless as they’re sure to be, leave a lot to desire, ambience-wise.

Objectively, living with Newton would probably be like living with a notorious grad student: bunk bed surrounded with things that just simply _need_ to remain perpetually within reach, a tortured dangling phone charger by the pillow, rumpled clothes scattered everywhere in random piles. Crumbs. About eleven mugs, all still wet. A large solitary carton of chocolate-flavoured cornflakes on top of the desk. A red guitar abandoned in the corner.

Hermann heaves a long-suffering sigh, mutters something incongruent about ‘sorting himself out’ and lopes off to the bathroom _en suite_ without further ado, leaving Newton to his own devices. 

Silence falls then, almost _dizzying_ after all the noises, and Newton suddenly realises he hasn’t thought any of this through, because — because _God_ , there’s the thoughts, the multitudes of swift-connected, interlinking thoughts raging in his head, that he really doesn’t want to be dealing with right now. There’s been a lot, arguably _too muc_ h, revealed and shared in the drift, and though the issues which Newt would kind of maybe want to be resolved remained frustratingly unclear, childhood trauma is still pretty much a fucking lot to take and —

Feeling like his head might spontaneously combust if he doesn’t busy himself with something, Newt sheds his ripped leather jacket and starts randomly plucking at things scattering the floor, trying to assemble some sort of a general pile, some … well, a _pretence_ of order, maybe. Kind of.

He doesn’t think about Hermann, he doesn’t _want_ to think about Hermann, because thinking about Hermann comes with so much other —

There’s a scattering clatter of some sharp object colliding with a hard surface, an echoing ringing noise — _then_ what sounds alarmingly like a strangled cry. All thoughts screeching to a rapid halt, Newton drops the whole pile back onto the floor and flings himself towards the tiny _en suite._

‘Hermann!’ he demands, banging on the metal door — before realising that _fuck_ , how is Hermann going to answer if something’s not _right_ — and barges in without further preamble, scanning the scarce area of the bathroom with wild eyes. 

‘Newton, I … I seem to have …’

Newt’s frantic eyes find him in a split second which still feels too late: trying to lift himself up from the floor, Hermann is pushed against the wall right by the sink, grasping blindly at any surfaces within reach in a vain attempt to gain some leverage: his cane is nowhere to be seen. He’s white-faced and shallow-breathed, and when Newton rushes towards him with outstretched arms, doesn’t even _do_ anything to push him away, just clings to his shoulder and lets himself be hoisted up and dragged out of the bathroom.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay, I’ve _got_ you,’ Newton says frantically, equal parts for Hermann’s and his own benefit, attempting to manoeuvre them towards the half-made bed without stumbling over any of the glaring mess — which, as it seems, he’s somehow managed _amplify_ instead of fixing.

‘We appear to have … _ah_ ,’ Hermann says at length, voice stymied as he sags against Newton thoroughly, forsaking any fight for independence, ‘switched _places_.’

‘Well,’ Newt quips, hopefully flippantly enough to be passable for normal, ‘it just be like that sometimes when you gotta save the world, Hermann. Honestly though, man, this kind of shit’s happening way too often for my liking. I —’

But instead of babbling on, as reassuringly _annoying_ as he’s sure it would have been for Hermann, he then allocates his uncannily undivided attention to the careful and intricate operation of lowering the taller man onto the bunk without causing any further damage. 

Hermann has managed to discard his appalling Alan Turing cardigan and sweater-vest combo in the _en suite_ , so Newt limits his own intrusion to flicking the top buttons of his neatly buttoned-up oxford open and tugging off Hermann’s shoes and socks. He gropes behind himself, yanking his worn rumpled Kaiju-blue blanket from the chair-pile and then folds it carefully over Hermann, who now alternates between keeping his eyes — cloudy, unfocused, _worryingly_ distant — firmly closed and opening them briefly to stare wordlessly at the bunk’s ceiling (scribbled richly with blue fluorescent doodles penned by the giant insomniac of the room’s tenant).

‘Does it hurt?’ Newt splutters at last, quietly, after realising he’s patted down and tucked in nearly every part of Hermann at hand fitting beneath the blanket — which, to his dismay, leaves quite a _lot_ sadly unattended and brings the woeful thought of his own height to Newton’s immediate attention — at least three times. Nervously, he moves his hand to ruffle up Hermann’s hair — earning himself a hissing intake of breath and, yes, finally a _reaction_.

Hermann has peeled his eyes away from the ceiling and focused them on Newton with considerable difficulty. Even despite his pallid appearance and pinched expression, he somehow manages to radiate a faint wave of familiar irritated reproach — amplified by the blue ghost-drifting bleed-out still buzzing between them — Newt’s way.

‘Yes,’ he says curtly. 

Newt bites his lip, torn between worry, irritation and the unmistakeable heavy feeling of fuck-your-lousy-attempts-at-diverting-my-attention-from-you-you-stuck-up-ungrateful-asshole and takes a step backwards, stumbling softly into the chair. ‘Yeah, I mean, stupid question, huh?’ he says meekly, and feels at least _some_ satisfaction at the look of vague remorse instantly visible in Hermann’s eyes. ‘Uh, sorry.’

All satisfaction is smothered instantly along with the involuntary wince of pain that sizes up Hermann’s features seconds later, having him clutch on the blanket and shut his eyes once again.

‘ _Newton_ ,’ Hermann begins in a hoarse voice, but the words die away in his throat. Eyes still closed, one of his hands creeps up awkwardly from beneath Newt’s blanket and moves to tug clumsily at the shirt’s collar, jerkily re-doing the top buttons. ‘I —’

But again, he trails off, as though unable to actually follow through with the thought. Newton looks at him for what seems like a whole minute before he manages to find his voice and croak out, ‘You know what?’

And then there he is, sidling back towards the bunk, perching himself at very edge (in a considerable, _safe_ distance from Hermann’s head and hands) and then reaching down slowly to unlace his boots. ‘I’ll stay here for a little bit, how about that?’

After a moment exquisitely tense silence, Newton thinks he catches a quiet sigh in the air — he glances up, bracing himself, and finds Hermann’s eyes half-open and watching him. He nods weakly.

‘Yes,’ Hermann says vaguely, in a voice that hardly even seems his own. ‘I’d … _like_ that.’ 

And that _is_ both allowance enough and heartrendingly more than Newt has been offered in ages. He almost feels like he’s cheating. Then again, he’s damned if he doesn’t clutch to his rare chance like to a lifeline, in the probable event of it being a first and last one simultaneously.

And so he nestles himself more comfortably on the tiny bed, leaning against the buoyantly colourful poster-covered wall, and then — quickly, _efficiently_ , leaving no space for any protest that wouldn’t come simply too late — lifts both Hermann’s legs up, pulls them over his lap and starts rubbing at one of his ankles soothingly through the blanket.

‘Thing is, dude,’ Newton says, staring ruefully ahead and wholeheartedly ignoring Hermann’s inevitable choked sounds of protest which come flurrying from the top of the bunk, ‘I can’t stop thinking that we haven’t even, like … shit, scraped the surface of what’s going on. You know? All we’ve done is shut down the … the, uh transmission, so to say. So now, yeah, it’s radio silence, they won’t come through, but neither will _we_. That doesn’t mean either side stops existing and that doesn’t mean either side’s priorities change. Cause they don’t.’

At least somewhat convinced he’s got a _decently_ distracted substitute topic, he chances a glance at Hermann — who’s leaning up on his elbows now, his flat chest heaving. Somewhat flushed, too, with fluffed up hair and a scowl on his face.

 _Ah_ , Newton thinks dumbly, feeling quite disarmed.

‘Newton, _what_ are you doing?’ Hermann grits out, eyes narrowing.

Newt shrugs. ‘I’m just saying, man, I know it was the only thing to do given the circumstances,’ he says, noting that his voice has entered its prime high-pitched glory somewhere midway through the sentence, ‘but I’m not sure if closing the breach isn’t like … like sticking the proverbial Band-Aid on a haemorrhage.’

‘There _is_ no such proverb,’ Hermann retorts, and then throws in, just as Newt is opening his mouth to respond, ‘and for God’s sake, Newton, can you not dredge up our worst nightmares the minute we manage to bury them? What good will that do, especially today?’

Wincing slightly, Newton tightens his grip on Hermann’s ankle. ‘I’m just sa _ying_ —’

‘And will you please stop doing _this_ ,’ Hermann snaps, voice an unlikely mixture of harsh and hunted. Then he adds, in a quieter voice and avoiding Newton’s eyes, ‘I am already humiliated enough as it is, I should think.’

At that, Newton can’t help himself — and simply stares.

‘Yeah man, cause you have, like, plenty of reasons,’ he creaks out, drawing his hand absentmindedly up Hermann’s calf, by now entirely unsure about _which_ one of them he’s trying to soothe by doing so. ‘Just helped save the goddamned world. No, scratch that. Saved the goddamned world, period. And, you know. _Some_ people might feel humiliated when they screw up, but you know what’s the hotter take for today? Feeling humiliated when you _don’t_ screw up. Patented Hermann Gottlieb, _ten years of experience_.’

As though to accentuate his point and perhaps maybe a little bit to wipe that annoying scowl away from Hermann’s face, if only by shock value, Newt lifts up Hermann’s right ankle once again and gives it a swift kiss through the blanket.

‘ _What_ are you doing,’ Hermann demands, apoplectic.

‘Now, I’m sorry, Hermann,’ Newton sighs, ‘you have such luscious ankles, I can’t seem to stop myself.’

‘ _Idiot_ ,’ Hermann says through clenched teeth — and a-ha, _yes_ , there’s the flush, a new one, up his high cheekbones, oddly prominent what with all the pale smooth skin. Newton rubs at his his left eye, somehow even _more_ nervous all at once, trying to reverse the inevitable pull of a thought process he really ought not be entertaining right now.

— and, ah _fuck_ , he’s already doing it.

How was it? How’d it go, the line? _But if you were the devil, you are fair._

 _Fitting enough,_ Newt thinks, half-guilty, half-amazed. The blue in his thoughts, hinting at so much loneliness on the other side, only fuels this violent pull, stifles the impact of what he usually sees as imminent rejection and what holds him back: right now, he kind of wants to cross a line, sneak up the bed and kiss the flush away from Hermann’s skin, or maybe kiss it _into_ it, permanently. He doesn’t, of _course_ he doesn’t. Contrarily to popular belief, Newton doesn’t quite have a death wish yet. 

‘Stop that,’ Hermann says abruptly and for a moment Newton thinks he’s still harking on about the poor ankle, now laid innocuously in his lap, ‘you’ll only make it worse, and it’s already heavily irritated as it is. You’re probably contracting an infection as we speak, we ought to have gone to Medical after all —’ 

‘And get poked and prodded by freaky lab people convinced we’re in dire need of a two-week quarantine in a nice room without doors and handles, cause of all the Scary Alien Contact we’ve just up and wallowed in? Hermann, they don’t _care_ about the cuts and bruises. It’s either we hide out for a bit or we’re getting brain-scanned from here to Utah.’

There’s a momentary silence: Hermann doesn’t seem to find a ready answer to Newt’s — infallibly logical, _obviously_ — claim. 

‘Well, I suppose,’ he says finally. ‘As long as you try not to make it _worse_.’ 

‘Unlikely,’ Newton says, laughing at something he doesn’t quite comprehend, hoarsely. One of his ribs strains painfully — did he crack it? Then Hermann winces, and Newton’s face falls, something of a different nature stuttering painfully in his chest.

‘Where’s it hurt?’ he asks, quietly. Hermann’s lips draw into a thin white line; he swallows without speaking. _You have to admire_ , Newton thinks, _how utterly still he can hold himself._ All he does is twitch and fidget and babble, in contrast, Hermann’s stillness feels irrationally alluring.

But then again —

‘Medical,’ Newt blurts out suddenly, struck with the worst sort of a multifaceted backwards epiphany. ‘ _Meds_. Of course. God, I’m an idiot — wait here.’ 

Hermann blinks in surprise as he starts scrambling off the bed. ‘Newton —‘ 

‘Or, wait, d’you have some in your quarters? Cause that’s, like, closer and I’d be quicker to —’ 

‘Yes, but that is not —’

‘No, you just — don’t move. Okay? You don’t move.’

‘Newton, _wait_.’

And _that_ tone, only just short of pleading, actually gives Newton pause and stops him mid-stride. Turning slowly, he raises his eyes to meet Hermann’s. ‘Yeah?’

For some reason, Hermann looks even more tired than he previously has, hunching his shoulders and staring down. ‘I’m afraid that … with _this_ level of exhaustion, once I’ve taken the medication, I will not be … particularly coherent,’ he says at last, in a stymied voice. ‘Filters removed, so to say. Please don’t … ah, hold it against me.’

There’s a pause. Something inside Newton tugs once again, violently, before he manages to smother it down and regain a semblance of precarious balance. Mercifully, his brain kicks into motion, _say something, say something stupid, so stupid that we both forget what _’s_ really going on, don’t ruin this. _

‘You mean, you’re gonna get high,’ he blurts, blinking rapidly with a sheepish smile. ‘High Hermann. _Heh_. Remind me, why haven’t we done this before? In, like, college. Can’t think of any reason I’d pass that up.’

Hermann is watching him with his large sad dark eyes and it’s for some reason unbearable. ’Newton,’ he says quietly, ‘we didn’t _go_ to college together,’ he says quietly.

 _Fuck_.

‘Oh, right, course.’ Newton mumbles, _now_ thrown off balance for good. ‘We didn’t. That’d be it.’

He stares down at his hands, both still trembling in the lingering aftershocks of two recent drifts, and suddenly feels overwhelmingly at a loss.

‘What I _meant_ to say,’ Hermann picks up after a while, with discernible difficulty, and Newton can _feel_ he is watching him, can picture his imploring and grave expression, and hates himself for not rising to the occasion and fucking up even something as simple as making Hermann think everything’s back to normal, ‘was that I might say something I would regret later on. Please —’

Newt inhales sharply and his stupor breaks: he looks up. Hermann has that hunted look again, not even hostile anymore, just kind of lost. Newton swallows — that ridiculous tightness gathering in his chest and fuck, he just won’t _have that_  —

‘Hermann,’ he says, smiling wanly, ‘I solemnly swear not to take offence at _any_ proclamations of your violent disdain for me you’ll begin spewing. Honest.’

Hermann looks torn for a brief moment, as though attempting to stifle something involuntary and school his expression into neutrality. Newt can only blindly guess at the true intention, and in all frankness, he’s beginning to feel too tired. And anyways, it’s probably _better_ he doesn’t know.

Finally, pursing his lips, Hermann says, ‘This is no laughing matter.’ 

‘I’m not _laughing_.’ 

And there it is, this odd feeling of reverence, sincerity, and once again, Hermann seems to accept it against his will: muscles relaxing somewhat, a jerky half-nod as he lowers his eyes. _Pick up ye rosebuds while ye may_ , Newton tells himself, growing hazy. 

‘I’ll be going now. Don’t die while I’m —’

‘Like _you_ are one to talk.’

Newton stops dead in his tracks. _Has he just said — but he couldn’t have meant —_

‘What?’

But Hermann’s eyes are closed again, head thrown back on the pillow, expression hazy and vague. Newt sighs. Or _perhaps_  he is making things up. Wishing stuff into existence, wouldn’t be the first time, wouldn’t be the last one.

‘I’ll be back,’ he says, by now definitely more for _his_ benefit than Hermann’s.

 

* * *

 

He’s startled awake just as the Kaiju’s jaw, luminous, suffocating and _everywhere_ , begins to crush down upon him, and nearly falls off the chair.

It’s dark in the room, a faintly blue dim glow of his fluorescent drawings doing little to quell the twilight. Newton straightens stiffly, thinking vaguely that one thing he probably shouldn’t be doing mere hours after two drifts is develop a kink in the neck from dozing off in his cheap, back-support-lacking chair. 

Why’d he do that, again? Instinctively, Newton’s eyes dart towards the bed and instantly, something inside him sizes up. Ah, because — because his bunk’s taken, that’s why. Yeah. _Right_.

Even while knowing that watching someone sleep is, like, unrivalled levels of creepy, Newton finds himself guilty of shamelessly staring at Hermann — his head slightly crooked, his mouth parted, one hand hanging limply from the bunk. It takes a whole minute of trying to reason with himself that _nothing about the picture needs fixing_ before Newton can’t stand it any longer.

And of course, Hermann _is_ roused from his sleep when Newt _subtly_ creeps up to smooth down the blanket (too tragically absorbed with debating the odds of being caught sneaking a surreptitious kiss to Hermann’s pale forehead to recognise he’s being both quite ridiculous and far too intrusive).

 _Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing_. Hermann inhales sharply and stirs, eyes flying open.

Wincing slightly and tensing up, Newt readies himself for the blow. _No filter_ , he reminds himself, squaring his shoulders, _no holding things against people. No hard feelings._

It’s useless, of course: he’s already far too invested for any modicum of rationality to have a right to prevail here, too clingy and desperate and puppy-eyed but it’s _Hermann_ , for God’s sake, and fuck it if Newton hasn’t nurtured this particular affection for _years_ now, so perhaps he has a right to feel a bit sad when — 

— something odd happens.

Hermann is staring at him through the dim air: hazy-eyed, bleary.

‘ _Newt_ ,’ he says, achingly soft. ‘Are you real?’

It feels like a punch to the sternum, or the cracked-up ribs, decisively too much to take. Struck down, blank-headed, Newt drops to his knees by the bunk. And almost instantly, _Hermann_ reaches out with a hesitant pale hand; pats the side of Newton’s face awkwardly as though he is not convinced of his physicality. 

‘Yeah, dude,’ Newton whispers. ‘Man, this really is taking a toll on you, huh?’

 _Wasn’t supposed to be this kind of ‘no filter’_ , he thinks dazedly, and then berates himself. _Stop it. Stop reading into it._

But it’s fighting a lost war, and Newton knows it, it’s like in the million times (which Hermann must have seen, hasn’t he? Just like Newt’s seen the lonely childhood of physiotherapy and melancholy in rain-soaked Berlin) in which he’s done the rash open-hearted thing and then suffered the blow, trying to pick himself up from the million splintered pieces. It’s just like all these times, only even worse, even _more_ , so he takes Hermann’s hand in his own — ah, _shaking_ , no point in even pretending it’s not shaking — and holds its cool back still against his scruffy cheek.

Hermann’s wary eyes study him with something Newt can’t label. ‘I’ve not been too late, then?’ he asks hoarsely, almost nonsensically, only not _quite_.

‘No,’ Newt says, smiling in spite of himself. ‘C’mon. You, Dr Vorhersage H. Gottlieb, late? ‘Tis but nonsense, good sir.’

Because maybe, _maybe_ Hermann will still behave normally, take the bait and scoff _. Maybe_ Newt’s not hallucinating, high on Kaiju fumes. 

Hermann inhales sharply, and his hand spasms, tightening around Newt’s. 

‘I’m … _sorry,’_ he manages — and something inside Newton lurches at that, because _come on, don’t, you don’t have to. Don't. Let me hold you. Don’t say it._

But Hermann goes on, valiantly, ‘For all I’ve said. All I’ve … not said. How I try to … conceal this affection, in vain fear of being pushed away. But it’s a vicious circle, I keep punishing myself, I keep hurting you. I don’t want that, I don’t want you to — to think, your last words to me could have been that, and I’ve never even — _forgive_ me. I’m afraid I’ve failed on all fronts.’

And here it is: Newton’s heart, struggling like some trapped animal, too overgrown and restless for his torn-up ribcage. He does feel high now, out-of-body kind of lightheaded. Unbearably, _unbearably_ aware of what Hermann is saying, but Hermann _can’t_ be saying that, it makes little to no sense —

_— but what else can it mean if not —_

_— if not —_

_Ah_ , so much for trying not to hope: it takes him in a shuddering wave.

‘Man, how do you still produce such long freaking sentences while stoned out of your mind?’ Newt says, voice cracking and shrill, shaking his head; _overwhelmed_. ‘You’re something else, Hermann, you know.’

Hermann’s half-wince half-smile, then, so _tired_. ‘So you maintain, yes.’ 

And he sounds so _sad_.

There’s a beat.

‘You’re, like, my everything,’ Newt blurts out, defeated, unravelling. There’s some limit to all this suffocating bullshit, there _must_ be, and he’s been on the edge for so long that he can’t even begin to justify it. ‘You _know?_ My whole fucking life.’

Words as sloppy as anything Newt ever manages to do, true, but Hermann actually _shivers_ , half-delirious and apparently unable to respond, and reaches out with his other hand. So _of course_ Newton moves in to embrace him. Such a lot of wasted time already, so _much_ , and Hermann is cool to the touch, sinewy and long-limbed and familiar. Newt tightens the embrace, shuts his eyes and inhales, _deeply_ — 

— and instead of more _Hermann_ , feels copper, and something hot and sweet in an unpleasantly cloying way on his lips when he licks them instinctively: blood. Warm, _his own_ , and _Scheiße_ , he’s having a nosebleed. A fucking nosebleed. 

 _Fuck_ the dizzying correlation of two-drifts-strain and all this violent emotion; of course something in his raging mess of an organism would give way. It always does.

He tries to raise himself shakily off Hermann, pushing a wobbly hand to his face — and is instantaneously met with the other man’s hands trailing his retreating ones weakly, in methodical and silent protest that is _endearingly_ Hermann in execution.

‘Oh shit,’ Newt manages, muffled against his hand, trying to wipe the blood away with the the first thing he stumbles upon after groping the bed — which happens to be an edge of the sheet, and God, this is _pathetic_. ‘ _Shit_ , Hermann, I’m bleeding all over you. Sorry. Jesus, I’m a mess,’ he says helplessly, and then laughs, a high-pitched cringe-worthy sound that makes him want to never make another noise _ever_.

‘Indeed,’ says Hermann, sounding marginally more like himself — an exhausted, muffled but still intrinsically sarcastic lilt of voice — and settling his hands on the lapels of Newton’s shirt, as though in reluctant compromise, ‘I’d say we both are.’

Newt hovers, uncertainly, with the worst kind of a sheepish lovesick smile, he’s sure, torn between wiping once more at his nose, then burrowing back into Hermann’s already stained night-shirt — _and_ doing the gentlemanly thing and limping off to the _en suite_ to sort himself out. 

‘For _God’s_ sake, Newton,’ Hermann then says, hoarsely, just as Newt starts tilting towards the latter option, _‘come_ here, I don’t mind.’

‘Oh,’ Newt says dumbly. ‘Okay.’

Hermann grumbles something more, but nevertheless does _let_ Newton crash on the bed fully-clothed, hog a part of the blanket, burrow his somewhat sticky face in the crook of his neck (and _yes_ , Newt does tug the top buttons open once again, out of sheer stubbornness, earning himself a sigh) and throw an arm across his chest, only derided for a moment by ditching his broken glasses onto the pile by the bed — which is a miracle all in itself.

The second miracle seems to be that he actually clings back. 

Funny thing, that heart. So restless that Newt could swear the whole damn world is beating right with it.

  

* * *

 

Hermann wakes up stiff-boned and achy but surprisingly, uncannily _warm;_ wakes up to be greeted by wan, blue-tinted dawn-light pooling into unfamiliar messy quarters — and with a face full of Newton Geiszler’s oddly soft hair. 

‘Nfft,’ he says, in vague abject surprise, _long_ before his mental capacities return. There’s a weight, a pressure on his entire body and there’s also a … _drowsiness_ — he’s not used to waking up feeling this disoriented. For a lingering moment, he remains confused, trying to piece together the mismatched puzzle pieces: link his inertia to the wide-spread sensation of touch, the warmth on his neck to the idle, heavy rhythm of breathing; deconstruct the fact that there seem to be _fingers_ interlinked loosely with his own. Because all of these notions ostensibly should make sense but then again neither of them does, because in what circumstances, in what _reality_ — 

‘Mm,’ Newt purrs (Hermann finds no other word apt to describe the hoarse incongruent sound he makes, not for the lack of _trying_ ) into the side of his neck, and Hermann’s already-woozy thought processes screech to a rapid, glaring halt.

 _Reality?_ _This has no right to be reality_ , a rather hysterical voice in his head declares. _Must be something else._

 _To sleep, perchance to dream,_ the same voice snidely supplies. _Ay, there’s the rub, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come …_

‘Newt,’ he stutters, half-frightened, half-amazed by the sheer possibility of answer — and then catches himself, even more startled.

The name, the blasted _nickname_ , slips off as easily as if it were second nature and not something he dreads, needing desperately to refrain from allowing into his vernacular — that last symbolic barrier between them, before Hermann collapses and reveals all of his enormous trouble hiding behind each pseudo-waspish jibe. 

 _Hermann_ , comes a blue buzz of even sleepier thoughts, tingling, disorienting, from his own head. But _not_. 

It is, _ah_ , also surprisingly warm. Warmer than Hermann remembers ever feeling, and somehow directed at him. Dizzying. Blue?

‘Huh? M’slep,’ Newt declares woozily, voice slightly lower than normally. Hermann perceives his fingers, still somewhat clumsy but miraculously not _shaking_ , tightening somewhere on the rumpled fabric of his own tugged-down collar.

‘You’re not. Newton,’ Hermann says stiffly, craning his neck as he grows flustered and increasingly panicked, still unable to _understand_ the situation, scared of whatever he may deduct as causality or cause as direct consequence. ‘You’re … you’re squashing me.’

It is, indeed, an indisputable fact: overnight, Newton has managed to align himself almost entirely flush atop Hermann, while somehow — subconsciously, and nevertheless _admirably,_ he has to admit — avoiding an assault on his bad hip.

The worrisome part is that Hermann finds it rather tolerable. More than tolerable.

_Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale, and not the lark —_

_Shut up,_ Hermann tells himself, nettled.

‘Nuh,’ Newt mutters, not moving an inch and merely nosing his face further into Hermann’s neck. ‘S’pretty nice. Warm.’

‘Newton, I really —’

‘Hermann, can stop being a _bitch_ for like _five seconds_ —’ Newton groans, more coherently, and straight into Hermann’s neck: a string of vibrating, tickling vowels and consonants on the already warmed-up skin and it makes Hermann tense up in a vain attempt from shivering or maybe _gasping_ , which, oh, which just wouldn’t do, no _no,_ ‘— and let me have my moment. ‘Kay?’

— and at that, for some reason, Hermann’s hazy memory chooses to deliver the striking shock of recollection of previous day in finer detail.

_‘For all I’ve said. All I’ve … not said.’_

Oh _, oh bloody hell._

He stiffens up so _entirely_ , utterly paralysed, that Newton does raise his head. ‘What?’

The sight of his face throws Hermann off-balance again. Part of his tension relents from sheer affection, part from _worry_ about the state Newton appears to be in: hair in a tangle of tousled, occasionally sticky strands, face flushed and richly scratched-up, scruffy. Eyes bleary and startlingly bloodshot. There’s blood dried on his upper lip and cheek, too, and instantly, Hermann wants to wipe it away — but holds back.

Newton leans up awkwardly on one elbow, blinking owlishly, and strokes Hermann’s collarbone awkwardly with his other hand. ‘Something’s wrong?’ he asks, voice sleep-hazed and familiarly high-pitched by now, ‘Where’s it hurt?’ 

‘… Yesterday,’ Hermann manages, nonsensically. 

Newt blinks again, slowly, as though trying to make out something meaningful from Hermann’s panicked, widened eyes and strained voice. 

Then he says, hoarsely, ‘Dude, this is either, like, _way_ too deep for this hour and lack of caffeine-intake or … or you’ll need to be a little bit more specific than that. Cause yesterday’s been pretty hectic.’

He leans slightly away, or simply rotates so that part of his weight is lifted from Hermann’s body — and _oh_ , how he immediately grieves the loss; then, yes, has to hold himself down rigidly so that he doesn’t reach back for Newt. 

All Hermann can do is stare. Newton sighs. 

‘Yesterday, okay. So it goes like,’ he starts counting off his fingers. ‘Like, one, I’m right about the Kaiju. I mean, _obviously_ I’m right about the Kaiju, that’s not a shocker, but I _prove_ it to you and the whole damned lot by drifting with that brain we had back there, yeah? Two, _you’re_ right about the math and the triple attack. See? I’m not even gonna pretend you weren’t right or point out how much less impressive it was than my thing, that’s how much I love you. Okay then, three, we save the world, drifting, then LOCCENT et cetera, kinda fun but kind of kicks us both up, too, you know? Yeah, I … I think we’re supposed to be in the Medical, like, right now, but we’ve passed out here instead. I don’t know, _that’s_ fuzzy. But yeah so, four, you tell me all about your _undying devotion_ to me —’

‘ _Newton_ ,’ Hermann says, choked. His cheeks flush hotly, fiercely, and the tone of his voice rings familiar at last, more indignant than flustered — as though there was anything to _salvage_ here at all. 

‘Or as close a euphemism as _your_ sense of propriety will allow to call it,’ Newt finishes peevishly, withdrawing even further away — even if one of his remains tangled with Hermann’s. ‘Jeez, sorry for presuming. For the record, I _did_ mean my part.’

 _Your part?_  

Oh — _yes_.

And if there’s anything in the universe he could have said in this particular moment to make Hermann’s already overstrained, struggling heart stop — it’s this.

‘Like you have meant your farewell?’ Hermann chokes out, against reason, and before affection gets better of him and he forgives all sans asking. It’s a half-victory, because his hand does chase Newt’s wrist just as the other man stiffens: cold fingers on _such warm_ skin, desperate and shaky and terrified to let go. ‘Your end, my fault? Did you mean that?’ 

‘And _that_ he remembers. Unbelievable.’ Newt deflates alarmingly quickly, eyes — one familiar, green tinged with hazel, one vulnerably _red_ — skittering downwards. He’s quiet for a lingering moment. Then, ‘I don’t want to say I’m sorry, because it’s like … feels cheaper than this calls for. But I _know_ it, for what that’s worth, I am actual trash. So —’

‘No,’ Hermann scoffs. ‘Not _remotely_. Way too rash in presuming you would not kill _me_ as well — that, yes. You’ll need to be more considerate, if this is — if we’re to —’

He trails off. Newt is staring down onto the PPDC-issue starchy white bedsheet — stained with blood, for some reason Hermann can’t presently recall but links vaguely to the blood on Newton’s face — so intently it’s impossible not to deduce the presence of some harder emotion underneath. His hand has twined around Hermann’s wrist in turn, impossibly warm, a rapid stutter of a quickened heartbeat under the skin.

Hermann squeezes it, suddenly determined to follow through no matter the price. ‘Because, of _course_ I meant my part, too. If … if you’ll have me.’

_Therefore stay yet. Thou need’st not to be gone._

Newt looks up sharply: his eyes are round and, somehow, wet. Damply, he says, ‘Come on, that should go the other way round. If you’ll — _I’m_ the one with the issues here. Shit, more trouble than it’s worth, probably.’

‘Probably,’ Hermann agrees, then moves cautiously so that he can take Newt’s other hand in his as well, pulling him closer. Then he says, looking down at their hands, with a wan smile, ‘And yet _I do love nothing in the world so well as you._ ’

A small tired smile tugs at the fuzzy, roughed-up corner of Newton's mouth: it’s disturbingly endearing. 

‘ _Is not that strange?’_ he says meekly, as though reading his thoughts —  and by Jove, at this point it is probably safe to assume that he _is,_ in some mystifying way — and then nuzzles Hermann’s neck once again. 

 _No_ , Hermann thinks, exhaling. _Not at all._

 

**Author's Note:**

> I would absolutely love to hear from you, every little bit of feedback means the world ❤️
> 
> The quotes scattered across this story are all from Much Ado About Nothing, Hamlet, Twelfth Night and Romeo & Juliet. Two comedies, two tragedies, evens out, right? Plus one non-Shakespearean poem for good measure.


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